


As One Door Closes

by MercuryPheonix



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryPheonix/pseuds/MercuryPheonix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> “You had me waiting longer than expected, Sixsmith.”</em>
</p><p>By some fluke of luck, Rufus Sixsmith survives the incident of Swannekke Island. Years later, a familiar face appears at the foot of his bed - and he finds that, after all these years, Robert Frobisher is still able to surprise him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As One Door Closes

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this amazing gifset](http://sixsmithyouass.tumblr.com/post/46599964851) by [sixsmithyouass](http://sixsmithyouass.tumblr.com/)

Sixsmith knows he is there.

Maybe it’s the scent; the subtle mix of cigarettes and whiskey and the musk of inked paper; maybe it’s the sense of tragedy that hangs in the air around him, whether self-imposed or genetically encoded, always marking him out as the artist of romantic ideals, the tragic poet, destined for short sharp painful brightness. Even after all these years, he carries something with him - something so recognisable that it feels like coming home.

Sixsmith can’t react to it immediately. He’s too busy trying to stay alive. It’s amazing how much energy that now takes. His first task, once he gathers the energy, is to get his niece to leave them alone. For one; this is something that needs to be done alone. For another; apparition or not, he doesn't trust this man in a room with Megan. She is bright, sharp, capable of holding her own with the best of them; he doesn't fear for her, but he fears the wounded ego of the man he can feel all around them.

Eventually, with arguments of food and rest and perhaps half a dozen ‘see you laters’, he manages to persuade her; and, with one last look of displeased resignation, she goes.

“You had me waiting longer than expected, Sixsmith.”

And there he is. The moment the door closes. Draped over the chair at the end of the bed , his elbow resting smugly on the desk that hasn't seen work in far too long. He looks every inch the man that Sixsmith remembers: from the vulnerable arrogance that shines in his eyes, the litheness of his body as it draws elegantly messy lines through the air, the web of dark hair that is thicker and madder than anything Sixsmith has seen before or since - right down to the clothes that he threw on during that frantic last morning in Cambridge, simple and unkempt and utterly perfect.

With more effort than he’s quite happy about Frobisher seeing, Sixsmith reaches for the oxygen mask that sits uncomfortably on his face, clutching it clumsily between his fingers and pulling it to his chest.

“I think,” he manages, his voice thick with concentration; he’s rehearsed these lines, just in case, just on the off chance that perhaps, maybe, just maybe…

“I think I'm ready for that other world.”

Frobisher smiles, all red lips and dripping arrogance and shining teasing affection. As if he knows just how practised those words have been, how many times Sixsmith's mouthed them into the stuffy warmth of the oxygen mask.

But he doesn't say anything.

And Sixsmith wonders if this is a dream.

“I'm not used to being kept waiting,” Frobisher quirks the smooth skin of his brow, running his hands through his hair - as full a head of hair as when Sixsmith last set eyes on him - and suddenly Sixsmith feels a hateful jealousy of his younger self; hopeful and vivacious; able to stand beside this man rather than look meekly up at him, an ailing old man struggling to hold his gaze. “I thought I was going to get you back in the seventies. You were like a lamb to the slaughter, getting on the wrong side of all those wrong people. Can’t tell you how disappointed I was to have to wait. It’s not like you to let me down, Sixsmith.”

Impatient, as well. Demanding. Definitely not a dream, then. Sixsmith was more than certain the Frobisher of his imagination would have more manners than the man he had known and loved and hated in equal measure.

“How did you manage to wrangle your way out of that one? The half-blind ignoramus that I knew would have been a very easy target indeed.”

And there it is. Sixsmith allows himself to relax. To smile. He recognises this. This is right. And oh, how he missed this. He hasn’t realised quite how much he’s missed it – not until now, when he finally has it again, does he realise just how gaping the hole in his chest had been.

Frobisher has stopped talking. His turn, then.

“The ignoramus you knew grew up.”

“Or maybe he just got lucky.”

Sixsmith feels something in his face twitch. It itches; a nagging sadness.

“That depends on how you define luck.”

And maybe it would have been easier. To go out in a blaze of glory, rather than ail slowly, trapped against a mattress and wired to machines. He could never have done what Frobisher did. He could never have placed that gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. But if someone else had done it for him? Maybe that would have been better.

Sixsmith tries to sit up. His body wrestles with him. A dull ache thrums through him, centring on his chest as the air fights to get into his lungs. He’s tired. So very, very tired. With a resigned sigh, he lets go; releasing the tension in his muscles and allowing the sheets to swallow him back.

“How is it, Robert?”

He doesn't have to say anything else. Robert knows.

His face softens. The hand that has been playing with his hair drops, hanging over the edge of the desk as Frobisher fixes him with his best stare. It’s a stare that says everything Sixsmith has ever known and a few things that he hasn’t. There is sadness. And affection. And maybe longing.

“Beautiful,” it’s almost a whisper; loud enough to hear, but rung through with softness. “As I told you it would be. Beautiful – but empty at the moment.”

Empty.

“Why?”

Frobishers lips tighten into a thin smile. Like he is trying to hold something back. Sixsmith has seen this many times throughout their adolescence; fighting the physical truth, even as he purported to chase it.

“Because who else would be willing to tolerate me, you ass?” Frobisher’s fingers play against the air, toying the keys of an imaginary piano. “Pater could barely stand twenty years of me. Who else would listen to the ramblings of somewhat-drunken, somewhat-insensitive genius composer for the remainder of their immortal life? I cannot – “ he stops suddenly, as if swallowing back the syllables that threaten to gush forth – “but never mind that. I'm here for you. Come with me.”

And he almost does.

He almost goes. Right there and then, out of this rotting piece of meat that has confined him for far too long.

But then he remembers.

How could he forget?

“I can’t.”

Frobisher’s face falls faster than would have been thought humanly possible. Desperation rises in his eyes, a sudden panic; the same look Sixsmith has seen a few times before, when the drink got too much and he ranted about bombs and brothers and families and failures.

“Megan. I have to wait until she gets back.”

That dark brow furrows in confusion.

“But why?”

“Because I can’t just leave. Not like that. I have to say goodbye. I know what it's like to –" he wonders whether this is the right road, but he cannot stop – “this time I want to say goodbye.”

It takes a moment before he sees understanding dawning on Frobisher’s face. His fingers stop tapping the air, curling into a fist that clenches and unclenches like a heart muscle. Sixsmith watches him closely as he evades his gaze; his eyelids flicker ever so slightly, a code that Sixsmith recognises from their youth. Even now, with the blur of his vision and the stretch of the decades since he last saw this, he can read it like a secret language. And it’s telling him guilt. Just a little guilt. Not regret. Never regret. But guilt.

He doesn't think Frobisher can surprise him any more.

And yet still he does.

He doesn't expect Frobisher to get up. He doesn't expect Frobisher to walk over to him. He doesn't expect the tentative hand that moves forward, brushing along the ridges of his own, dancing lightly on the withered skin and protruding veins that disguise the fingers that he once used to know so well. Sixsmith can feel every detail of his fingertips as they gently map the new terrain of his hands. Leaving new footsteps. He used to know those hands so well. He recognises their touch. He remembers a time when those fingers used to know every inch of him like a worn traveller. How times change.

“I did wonder – on occasion – “ the fingers trace upwards, to his wrist, now thin and frail, curling gently around it – “whether there would be – some sort of poetry to getting older. That there was some beauty to it that I would't know unless I reached it. Was I right, Sixsmith? Was I?”

Forgiveness. He’s asking for forgiveness. Sixsmith can feel it in the softness of the touch, the way that his fingertips trace every blemish and wrinkle that Frobisher doesn't recognise. He wants to hear that it was okay – that growing old wasn't so bad without him, that he didn't hurt him too much; that he wasn't thinking of anything but himself, that he wouldn't have changed what he did to himself but that he’s sorry for doing that to him. The insane, tragic, annoying, beautiful man that he knew, all those years ago, years that seem both a lifetime and second, could never be contrite – but here and now, he is sorry.

Robert was always the wisest of the both of them; an old man in a young man’s body; an old soul raging with the hormones of youth; and now it’s his turn. He’s old. He’s seen more of the world in eighty years than Frobisher could have dreamed of in his short life. It’s time for his wisdom. His forgiveness. And he can give him that.

“It’s not all bad,” he curls his fingers, brushing his knuckle against the soft skin of Frobisher’s wrist. “I wouldn't change anything. Maybe once I would have. Not now. But you would have hated it. Everything about it, ” a tiny smile teases onto his lips. “You weren't meant to be old. You wouldn't have worn age well.”

When Robert smiles back, Sixsmith swears it is the most beautiful thing he could imagine.

“I clearly couldn't have worn it better than you.”

“Please,” Sixsmith scoffs. “Don’t flatter me. I look awful. The Robert Frobisher I knew would only use such flagrant flattery for one purpose. I'm going to be unable to accommodate you on that front right now, I am afraid.”

“Do you take me for a fool, Sixsmith?” the arrogant slyness that Sixsmith loves and despairs of in equal measure curls teasingly in every line of his face. “It’s only sensible that I should start the flattery now. That way, when we get to where we’re going, I don’t have to go through the whole hullaballoo before I get what I want. Sixty years is a bloody long time, and no matter how lovely the setting there are some things that a man can’t do without.”

The laugh that bubbles painfully, yet wonderfully, from Sixsmith’s chest is still resonating in the room when Megan comes back. Her brow furrows in confusion, seeking an answer, but she doesn't have all the variables to her equation; she never can, as much as he loves her.

She cries as he says his goodbyes. Clutches his hand. He can feel Frobisher’s fingers on his own, eyes flicking between them, absorbing this relationship that he has never seen before; the touch keeps him strong, even as Megan tightens her grip, begging him for just a few more moments, please, she’s not ready for him to leave. He doesn't go until she understands. Until she sees that he is ready to go. That this isn't the end. Not really.

And, as she shakes the tears from her eyes and gives a silent nod, he closes his eyes; and then there is nothing but the fingers curled about his wrist, the familiar lips that press to his forehead, and the feel of the Corsican sun across his face.


End file.
